Shirley was glad she knew no such men, and if she ever married and had a son she would pray God to spare her that grief and humiliation.  She herself knew something about the sacrifices parents make to secure a college education for their children.  Her father had sent her to Vassar.  She was a product of the much-sneered-at higher education for women, and all her life she would be grateful for the advantages given her.  Her liberal education had broadened her outlook on life and enabled her to accomplish the little she had.  When she graduated her father had left her free to follow her own inclinations.  She had little taste for social distractions, and still she could not remain idle.  For a time she thought of teaching to occupy her mind, but she knew she lacked the necessary patience, and she could not endure the drudgery of it, so, having won honors at college in English composition, she determined to try her hand at literature.  She wrote a number of essays and articles on a hundred different subjects which she sent to the magazines, but they all came back with politely worded excuses for their rejection.  But Shirley kept right on.  She knew she wrote well; it must be that her subjects were not suitable.  So she adopted new tactics, and persevered until one day came a letter of acceptance from the editor of one of the minor magazines.  They would take the article offered—­a sketch of college life—­and as many more in similar vein as Miss Rossmore could write.  This success had been followed by other acceptances and other commissions, until at the present time she was a well-known writer for the leading publications.  Her great ambition had been to write a book, and “The American Octopus,” published under an assumed name, was the result.

The cab stopped suddenly in front of beautiful gilded gates.  It was the Luxembourg, and through the tall railings they caught a glimpse of well-kept lawns, splashing fountains and richly dressed children playing.  From the distance came the stirring strains of a brass band.

The coachman drove up to the curb and Jefferson jumped down, assisting Shirley to alight.  In spite of Shirley’s protest Jefferson insisted on paying.

“Combien?” he asked the cocher.

The jehu, a surly, thick-set man with a red face and small, cunning eyes like a ferret, had already sized up his fares for two sacre foreigners whom it would be flying in the face of Providence not to cheat, so with unblushing effrontery he answered: 

“Dix francs, Monsieur!” And he held up ten fingers by way of illustration.

Jefferson was about to hand up a ten-franc piece when Shirley indignantly interfered.  She would not submit to such an imposition.  There was a regular tariff and she would pay that and nothing more.  So, in better French than was at Jefferson’s command, she exclaimed: 

“Ten francs?  Pourquoi dix francs?  I took your cab by the hour.  It is exactly two hours.  That makes four francs.”  Then to Jefferson she added:  “Give him a franc for a pourboire—­that makes five francs altogether.”